"And this Prince of ours, whom you have asked to be your king. Is not
that a spoke in your wheel?" asked the man of few words.

"A loose spoke which will drop out. No one--not even Prim--thinks that he
will last ten years. He may not last ten months."

"But you have to reckon with the man. This son of Victor Emmanuel is
clever and capable. One can never tell what may arise in a brain that
works beneath a crown."

"We have reckoned with him. He is honest. That tells his tale. No honest
king can hope to reign over this country in their new Constitution. It
needs a Bourbon or a woman."

The quick, colourless eyes rested on Mon's face for a moment, and--who
knows?--perhaps they picked up Mon's secret in passing.

"Something dishonest, in a word," put in the Pole.

But nobody heeded him; for the word was with the leader.

"When last we met," he said at length, "and you received a large sum of
money, you made a distinct promise; unless my memory deceives me."

He paused, and no one suggested that his memory had ever made slip or
lapse in all his long career.

"You said you would not ask for money again unless you could show
something tangible--a fortress taken and held, a great General bought, a
Province won. Is that so?"